From the Dark
by Sweartoad
Summary: Harry Potter’s life is changed the night his parents are murdered. Hidden for 16 years, the truth about Harry’s past surfaces, along with a temperamental tutor to get him up to scratch with his magic, two best friends and a Dark Lord who wants him dead.
1. Of StarStealers and Kneazles

**From the Dark**

_Chapter One:_ Of Star-Stealers and Kneazles

_He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you._

– Friedrich Nietzsche

**Important author's note:** _This story originally was going in a much different direction than the one it's heading in now. For everyone who has already read this first chapter, it's probably best just to skim over it again to find out what's changed. __The old storyline was a bit problematic in terms of where it could go and what I could do with it, so I decided to change it. __For everyone else, I guess it doesn't really matter, so just read! XD_

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It was a dark night in a small town very near to the border of Scotland.

For such a late October evening, it was surprisingly warm. Gentle breezes played with rust-coloured leaves, a soft reminder of the scorching heat of the preceding summer. The sky had, for quite some time, been cloudless and bright with stars, making stargazing a very popular past-time for the small population of Old Punchbowl.

This evening was no exception; in fact, it may have been the most stunning of them all. The sky almost shone with the amount of stars inside, as if someone had filled it to overflowing with the bright pinpoints of light, to the extent that there was almost no dark patch of sky left.

In the middle of Old Punchbowl was a church. It had been there longer than anyone could remember, its churchyard full to the brim with the graves of the deceased. At the far end of the church, near the stone wall that had been built some 200 years ago, stood a weeping willow. Underneath the weeping willow stood one tall, lone man.

To anyone passing by, he would have looked like a very old, very eccentric grave robber. He wore a pinstriped vest over a white shirt, with matching striped pants, covered by a brilliantly blue trench coat. His waist-length hair and beard were the colour of pearls, and shone almost as bright as the stars.

In one wrinkled, long-fingered hand, a beautifully decorated, slightly odd fountain pen was loosely clutched. He sat there for a long time, occasionally checking his wristwatch and twiddling his thumbs. The watch ticked its way around the face until the hour and minute hands were both pointed at midnight. With a great long sigh – perhaps of relief, perhaps of something else – the man looked up, brought the pen to the level of his eyes, and began to place dots across the sky. Wherever the pen pointed, one star would disappear, replaced by a small dark patch. As each star disappeared, so too did the light, and the man continued until the sky was half as bright as it had been, making what he wore look very black and dimming the luminosity of his hair.

The Star-Stealer was quickly deposited inside a breast pocket, and the man set off towards the church gates with a long, striding pace. He skirted around gravestones with a quickness that did not go with his age, and in the space of the next five minutes he had exited the church grounds and walked the length of the main road, drawing to a halt in front of a small cottage at the very end. The gate was open, and, bowing slightly, the man entered into the tidy front garden. A speckled cat started and hissed at him from the front step, and bolted off into the darkness; unfazed, the man stepped up and rapped smartly on the door. It was silent for a while, and then the soft clinking of china against a wooden table could be heard.

"Who is it?" called a voice from the inside. It was a slightly shaky, but nonetheless resolved voice. The man chuckled, and reached into an inside pocket of the trench coat; withdrawing it, he clasped a long, slender wand, obviously incredibly old but spotlessly clean and immaculate in its appearance.

"Come now, Arabella – there is no need to hide," he said cheerfully. "Unless of course you are not the real Arabella Figg, in which case I will blast down this door and take you hostage and possibly interrogate you."

Immediately there was the scraping of a chair inside, and then the door was thrown open: a slightly batty woman, with frizzy hair stood there, grasping the doorframe with white knuckles. She stared at him for a while, and then beamed.

"Albus Dumbledore! Oh, Albus!" she cried, reaching and grasping his hands. "You're alive! I'm hearing all sorts of news, you know – the others in the village have been packing up and running left right and centre!"

Dumbledore inclined his head, shaking his head softly and stowing his wand away. "I had feared they might," he said softly. Arabella stared at him.

" … So … it's true, then?" she whispered, her hands dropping from his. With a deep sigh, he nodded his head. "No!" she gasped. "What will become of us – of you?"

"That is why I am here, Arabella," he said softly. "But please – let us go inside. I would rather not talk about this on the street."

Arabella started. "Oh … oh yes … I had forgotten … I had been prepared to … but never mind … please, come inside and make yourself comfortable."

Dumbledore inclined his head and swept past her; Arabella stayed at the door, casting a quick glance around. The cat that had hissed before had returned, and she bent down to it.

"Make sure you keep a good lookout," she whispered, and the cat gave an uncomfortable jerk of its head that looked oddly like a nod. Then, with a flick of its lion-like tail, it was gone. Arabella stood up, and ducked inside again, shutting the door behind her with a snap. As soon as the door was safely shut, spotted cats with oversized ears and similar tails appeared as if from nowhere, crowding around her feet and mewing noisily.

"I see the Kneazle business is faring well," Dumbledore said conversationally, sitting on a chair by the fire in the tiny living room, a Kneazle kitten jumping to sit on his knee and purring loudly as he stroked its chin.

"What? Oh, yes. So easy to train, they are – people have been wanting things to keep lookout, you know, so they come to me and ask for kittens that have been already taught."

"And … you are well off, from this business?"

Arabella looked confused. "I … not really, the kittens don't really fetch all that much – the licences to breed and keep them cost more than the bloody animal! – but I have enough to get by, if that's what you mean."

Dumbledore sighed, and pushed the cat off his lap gently. Leaning forward, he withdrew a pair of half-moon glasses from yet another pocket, and perched them on his slightly crooked nose.

"Arabella, I have come here tonight to talk to you about the future of the wizarding community," he said slowly. Arabella settled herself in front of him, an unreadable expression on her face. "We are entering dark times. The resistance has lost war after war after war – there is no doubt in anyone's mind that we are not winning." He looked defeated, worn down. "However, I had never considered giving up until tonight."

She nodded slowly. "It's true, then, isn't it … "

"It appears," Dumbledore said, "that Lord Voldemort" (here Arabella shuddered) "through one of his many experiments, has succeeded in his ultimate conquest. He has succeeded in defeating death itself."

With a gasp, Arabella almost fell off her chair. Steadying herself, she stared at Dumbledore.

"No! That's impossible!" she whispered. "How? How did you find out?"

Standing swiftly, Dumbledore went to the window, and stared out it with troubled eyes.

"This is something that I want to keep as secret as possible," he murmured, turning to gaze at her. "And before I tell you, you must know something."

She nodded, eyes fixed on him.

"You must know that, if I tell you what I am about to, your life will be altered irreversibly – you will never be able to return to your old life. It is much that I ask for, and I understand if you would rather have me thrown from your home than comply with the whims of an old man. Do you wish to continue?"

Without hesitation, Arabella nodded fiercely, eyes locked on him and burning with loyalty, and Dumbledore turned back to the window with a slightly sad smile.

"Earlier this evening, an even occurred that was both terrible and wonderful," Dumbledore said slowly, clasping his hands together on the windowsill. "Earlier this evening, Lily Potter was discovered and murdered at Godric's Hollow."

" … Li … Lily … oh lord … oh no … " Arabella gasped, a hand placed over her heart. "But – James – "

"James is dead," Dumbledore said softly, "killed protecting his wife and child."

There was silence behind him, and then Arabella began to hiccough, her eyes incredibly watery. "Oh … oh dear … I always do this when I cry … " she whispered, fumbling with a handkerchief, tears starting to leak down over her cheeks. Dumbledore walked to her, and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Do not be ashamed to cry, Arabella," he said, gently squeezing. "It proves that you are still human."

She nodded quickly, and tried to speak, but all that came out was an awkward squeak. She tried again, and succeeded.

"Did they … ?"

The old man's face was unreadable for a second, and then his expression became incredibly sad.

"It is impossible to know whether they suffered," he muttered. "The mechanics of the Killing Curse are known only to those killed by it. Not even the curse's inventor knew how it worked."

Arabella began to cry again, harder this time.

"And … and … the boy?" she gasped through her tears. "What about Harry? Did he survive?"

" … The death of Lily and James is a terrible, terrible thing. It has ripped apart one of our most loyal, beloved families. However, the survival of Harry is wonderful news."

"Yes … yes, wonderful … "

"It is wonderful," he continued, watching Arabella carefully, "because Harry Potter was hit full-on with the Killing Curse."

She continued nodding, wiping her eyes, when suddenly she stopped, and turned her face up to stare at him.

"He … survived?"

"Yes," he said, nodding deeply. "Yes, he did. On the same night that Voldemort's immortality was proven, he made one fatal mistake: he created an opponent powerful enough to kill him. Because of this, he is in great danger.

"At the moment, the Dark Lord is under the impression, as I said earlier, that he killed both Lily and Harry, and thus eradicated all threat to him. Because of this, we have an unexpected advantage over Voldemort. The boy will have to be hidden – perhaps farther north, perhaps a different country altogether.

"In addition, Harry has no immediate family to take care of him. Because of this, I have arranged for Lily's sister to take him in."

"WHAT?!" she shrieked, jumping up and knocking over her chair, sending Kneazles nestled around her running. "_Petunia_? She is the most rude, conceited, _hateful_ Muggle I have ever met!"

"And she is the only one who I can trust Harry's raising with," Dumbledore said.

"He won't be raised well, Albus," she said warningly. "Being raised away from his birthright – absolutely _unheard_ of – Petunia's about as magical as a mushroom, and with about as much maternal love to boot!"

Without seemingly have heard her, Dumbledore righted Arabella's chair with a flick of his wand.

"This brings me to the real reason why I am here, in Old Punchbowl, with nothing but terrible news."

Arabella studied him for a moment, and then bowed her head slowly.

"You're going to make this place Unplottable, aren't you?" she said. He nodded.

"After the fall of Hogsmeade, I know that the survivors travelled to this place because they saw it as out of the way. And now they flee again. I daresay that the town is completely deserted now."

Arabella heaved a sad sigh. "The Kneazles have been keeping watch all day. The last are probably leaving as we speak."

"Then Old Punchbowl is perfect."

Dumbledore rose again, and went to the door.

"This town will serve as a place where those who cannot be found will hide. The location will be made Unplottable, and a trusted Secret Keeper will be established as to how one can exit and enter."

" 'Those who cannot be found'?"

"Those that pose a threat to the Dark Lord. Those, for example, such as myself."

"You … you're going into hiding?" Arabella asked, following him and now standing in the kitchen.

"Yes," he said. "I am. So are you. So is Sirius Black. So are the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix. From there we will need to consolidate our efforts into creating a new generation of witches and wizards who may carry on in our footsteps."

"But none of the old crowd have young children, Albus," Arabella said. "Doesn't that mean – "

"Yes. We will need to find children to make this dream possible. But that course of action," he added, opening the door, "will not start for several years, at least. At the moment, however, we must focus on ensuring the safety of Harry Potter, and by doing that we must make sure he has no contact with any of us. He is, as it stands, our best – and only – chance at defeating the Dark Lord once and for all, and to make contact with him would be to jeopardise his position."

Arabella glanced down quickly. "Why … why children, Albus?"

"This is not common knowledge, Arabella," he said, turning to her and gazing at her over his glasses, "but Voldemort planned to eradicate the teaching of magic to all those except the children of his most loyal Death Eaters. Now that he is in control, I fear he plans to continue to pursue this course of action, in which case we must strive to continue the teaching of magic so that the continuation of our kind is not at risk."

"Will you get Minerva, then, Albus?" Arabella asked. Dumbledore blinked.

"Oh, I daresay that she is around somewhere – Minerva is quite adept at finding her way and taking care of herself," he said. Arabella immediately began to peer around, as if expecting the woman in question to step out from behind a tree or from the shadows on the other side of the lane. Dumbledore chuckled at her.

Stepping out into the dark garden, he continued to the gate, and paused before exiting it.

"Arabella – this place will become Unplottable as soon as I leave. You must stay inside the town boundaries at all times, no matter what you hear or see. You must not allow any Kneazles out. Stay put until I return with Hagrid," he commanded. Feebly she nodded at him.

"Of course, Albus, of course. When will you return?"

"I will have returned by the time the sun rises. Until then, please busy yourself by running along to each and every house and making note of which ones are habitable and which aren't," he said. And then a quick twinkle returned to his eyes. "I daresay some of the wizards who fled wanted to take out as many Death Eaters as possible, should they stumble across Old Punchbowl."

And with that, he turned and began to walk briskly down the main street again. Arabella stood frozen for a second, and then dashed after him.

"But – Albus! Wait! I'm a Squib! I'm of no use to you!" she cried, waving her arms.

"I believe your mother left you with an incredibly useful, rare magic-detecting ring before she died," Dumbledore called over his shoulder. "I would not trouble you with this task if I did not believe you could do it."

With one last look, he turned and continued walking, until, at the very end of the road, he disappeared, leaving Arabella standing alone in the middle of the road, cats swarming around her feet. Sparing a last glance towards where Dumbledore had been, she turned and rushed back towards her house, desperately hoping that she hadn't sold the ring.

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It was an old house on an old hill, no one could deny that. Once proud, it now stood crumbling, roof tiles sitting crooked and broken. The smell of damp permeated both the air inside and around it, and ivy pushed its way through the cracks in the glass and snaked its way across the floors of the rooms inside, clutching at the handrails of the stairs to the upper level. There was no back door – it lay charred on the floor of the living room, smoking like a bad omen.

On the second landing, a door stood slightly ajar, and the flickering light of a fire inside could be seen. Occasionally the light was blocked as an unseen figure passed by it, but that was rare and very brief.

"Master … he'll kill me … he'll _kill_ me … master!"

The short, young man pacing the room was rapidly clenching and unclenching his fists, dragging them through what sparse amount of hair he has left and biting his nails.

A high-backed chair facing the fire was the only furniture in the room, and when the man spoke he would address the chair.

" … what if he finds me … I'll be dead faster than you can shout _Avada Kedavra_ … he'll find me for sure … oh, he'll _kill_ me …

"Hold your tongue, Wormtail."

The voice was rough and soft at the same time, with a biting coldness to it that stopped the man in his tracks.

"B – but, _master_, he'll kill me – I'm dead, I'm so so _so_ dead!"

The chair moved slightly, and a tall, robed figure stood, his face hidden by a hood.

"Do you truly have so little faith in me, Wormtail?" he said softly, drawing a wand from the dark recesses of his sleeves and fingering it lovingly. "Do you doubt my ability to protect you?"

Wormtail quickly fell to his knees, grovelling up to the other figure and placing kisses at the edge of his robes.

"No, my lord – no – I do not doubt you – I – "

With something like a chuckle escaping his lips, the hooded figure raised a foot and kicked Wormtail away from him.

"Then do not worry about what Black will do to you. He is, after all, one man. Your lord will keep you safe," the man hissed, raising one pale hand and pushing the hood off his face.

His face was terribly, disgustingly beautiful to behold. His skin was smooth – as white and blanched as that of a dead man's; there was no hair on his head. His nose was flat, with long, slitted nostrils, and the eyes … the eyes were the most terrible. The irises burned bloodred, and the whites of his eyes were badly bloodshot.

Wormtail recoiled from him as his master stared down at him ruthlessly.

"Leave."

The one word had Wormtail scurrying from the room. The door swung open after him, and with a lazy flick of his wand, the Dark Lord shut it gently behind him.

Striding languidly towards the window, Lord Voldemort lay a pale hand on the windowsill, and stared out into the bright night sky. Millions of stars littered it, making it shine with a luminosity that was almost magical.

Softly he clenched a fist. Even he … the Dark Lord … was not sure what had passed that evening. It was as if … almost as if the boy's death had ripped him from his body for a split second. And even now, hours after the event, he felt as if something had been stolen from him. Almost as if … but no. It was impossible. No one knew … and yet … he was filled with the strangest feeling that a part of him had been lost in that instant when his fragmented soul had been separated from its mortal coil. A magical part of him … perhaps some of his talent … ? But no … it was impossible … he felt no weaker …

With a regal shake of his head, Lord Voldemort raised himself from his thoughts, and returned his attention once again to the night sky.

No one had been left alive inside that house … he'd used _Avada Kedavra_ on the parents and the boy. No one had ever survived the Killing Curse … But if that were true, then why did he feel as if he was overlooking something big … ?

Something akin to a frustrated sigh escaped his lips, and he forced his gaze back up to the stars. And stiffened.

There, in front of his eyes, stars were disappearing. One by one – it must have started when he first came to the window – but the sky was darker, and soon the Dark Lord could see individual stars suddenly snuffing out. He sneered.

So. The old man had survived, then? He would have to remedy that …

But that could wait. Dumbledore was old, after all, and he knew when a fight was lost. Still … he would have to keep an eye out. Just to make sure.

With one last glance to the window, he glided towards the chair by the fire, and sat down, clasping his hands together and staring broodingly into the fire.

**TBC **

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_So … that's the first chapter._

_I had a lot of problems with what to do with this chapter, because I also started making a list of characters that would be playing an important role in the story. Originally James was still alive and in Azkaban (and there was this whole little section devoted to him) but I really want for Harry to look to someone else as a guardian/mentor, and James would just get in the way. I also wasn't too sure about letting Sirius live, because the way I've started to write him is going to be LOADS different from the way dear ol' JKR wrote him: for starters, he hasn't suffered in Azkaban and has had a chance to grow up, which will be different.  
_

_Anyway, thanks for reading. I can't make any promises about chapter updates, but I definitely like this story enough to continue it._

_x Sweartoad_


	2. Abracadabra

**From the Dark**

_Chapter Two:_ Abracadabra

_The most terrible poverty is loneliness and the feeling of being unloved._

- Mother Teresa

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The people who inhabited Privet Drive, of Little Whinging, Surrey, were quite confident that their little piece of England was the best piece there was. Neat little houses lined the neat little street, surrounded by neat little gardens and populated by neat little families. There was a country club just up the road that hosted frequent ladies' lunches in which the housewives of Privet Drive attempted to glean gossip from one another, while the local elementary school was where all their children were sent until they were old enough to either go to Stonewall High, the secondary school located in the next district, or one of the two private schools situated close by. It was a perfectly normal, respectable neighbourhood – the last place anyone would expect to see something out of the ordinary.

The family that took most pride in their normalness were the Dursleys, who lived at Number Four. They consisted of Mr. Vernon Dursley, a rather large man with no neck and too much moustache, who had a job as the head of a manufacturing company that dealt primarily with drills; Mrs. Petunia Dursley, who was very thin and bony and who didn't work; and Dudley Dursley, their son, who didn't really resemble a boy so much as a large pink … thing. Vernon and Petunia were very careful in maintaining their normalness because they were terrified of what lay just inside the cupboard under the stairs – Harry Potter.

Harry Potter was as different from the Dursleys as night and day. Whereas Dudley was blonde and very fat, Harry Potter was not blonde and very skinny – he wore round glasses that were a bit too small for his face, and he had a shock of jet black hair that stuck out at all angles on his head. One of the only features his aunt and uncle could actually put up with (besides his ability to fit in the cupboard under the stairs, which meant that they didn't have to give him the third bedroom yet) were his brilliantly green eyes. One of the many features they couldn't stand was his lightning bolt scar.

It sat on his forehead, just above his right eyebrow and slightly to the left. Harry had always been told that it was from the car crash which had killed his parents; Vernon and Petunia knew that it was the only physical evidence that Harry Potter was a _very_ unusual boy. Vernon and Petunia hated unusual things.

It had all started when Petunia's sister, Lily, had received a letter on her eleventh birthday, which had seen her being shipped off to a boarding school in Scotland. The unusual thing about this school was that it was a school for magic, and the unusual thing about Lily was that she was a witch.

After that it had all gone downhill; Lily met a boy at school called James Potter, and within three years of graduating they were married. That was when Petunia had severed contact with her sister, firstly because she was getting married to Vernon, and secondly because she didn't want any future family of hers mingling with _their_ types. Vernon openly encouraged the familial rift because he wasn't quite sure if wizardry was contagious.

So it had been with greatest surprise that, one cold Wednesday morning on the first of November, Petunia had opened her door to put out the milk bottles to find a baby on her doorstep. That baby was Harry Potter.

It was very apparent from the outset that Harry Potter was strange. The people of Privet Drive were very quick to notice 'that strange Harry Potter' when he walked down the street, lagging behind his aunt and cousin and seemingly lost in his own world. Aunt Petunia walked them to school every day and, while completely blind to her own son's faults, was as quick as a whip to notice Harry's. This morning's berating had been all about his hair.

" – can't see _how_ it got so bad – after all of the time and money we've spent on you! – _absolutely_ ungrateful – you'd think you'd at least _try_ to look presentable – "

Harry had tuned her out because he had heard the same thing at least a million times – Harry's hair was a hot topic when it came time for Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon to choose things to nitpick about.

Dudley was waddling next to his mother sniggering. There was nothing he liked more than to see his parents rip in to Harry (he also liked using Harry as a punching bag, but this didn't happen often because Harry was extremely fast and Dudley was extremely slow).

School for Harry was miserable. It wasn't because Harry was stupid, because he wasn't – Harry was particularly bright, and got high marks in most of his classes. It was just that all of the children who went to the school lived in Little Whinging; almost half of Harry's classmates were from Privet Drive. This made Harry the most unpopular boy in the class, if not the school, because Dudley and his gang openly hated him, and everyone was afraid of Dudley. Harry didn't exactly have any good friends – when he was in year two a boy had tried to become friends with him, but Dudley beat him up. The boy changed schools very quickly after that.

A lot of strange things seemed to happen around Harry too. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were of the impression that if they ignored something, it would simply cease to exist and they applied this approach fastidiously to Harry's 'condition'. Most of Harry's classmates just thought that he had lots of accidents; Harry himself was under the impression that he had extremely bad luck. Only Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon knew what the real reason was, and they rationalised that if they kept Harry as down-trodden as possible, they would be able to squash the magic right out of him. They always punished him harshly after an 'accident' with extended stays in his little cupboard under the stairs, and could ignore him for weeks on end. Through this cycle they hoped to end Harry's 'condition' – what they didn't realise was that they were only fuelling the fire.

One of the more unusual 'accidents' happened after Aunt Petunia had dropped Harry and Dudley off at school. Harry, now seven years old, had somehow managed to turn a particularly nasty teacher's wig blue, much to the delight of his classmates and the detriment of both his teacher and his aunt and uncle. After Harry had come home with an incensed letter from the school headmistress, he had faced a livid Uncle Vernon, who looked more like an angry rhino than a human. The 'accident' spurred Uncle Vernon to immediately lock Harry away in his cupboard – Harry had no doubt that this would be his longest ever punishment.

In the dark of the cupboard, Harry sat quietly, staring at some broken baby toys that Dudley had tired of a long time ago. They sat on the small rickety shelf above his bed, surrounded by other odd bits and pieces he had salvaged over the years. There were crayon drawings stuck to the walls from when he'd been a little younger, but Harry had just turned seven, and knew that he was getting to be too old to draw.

Sometimes Harry wondered what it would be like to be liked – to be someone other than 'that strange Harry Potter', with his baggy hand-me-downs and too-small glasses, constantly chased by Dudley Dursley and his gang and living in a small dark cupboard under the stairs.

Harry surprised himself when a suspiciously familiar burning began behind his eyes, followed by two fat tears that leaked down his cheeks, and it seemed that once the seal had been broken there was no end in sight. He sat there, sobs muffled into his hands and his tiny shoulders shaking, letting the despair of being a boy that no one wanted nor loved wash over him, sitting alone in the dark.

It was a few hours later when Harry finally calmed down enough to realise his eyes were terribly swollen and he had the worst headache he could ever remember having. But he also felt strangely better, and deciding that it was late enough that his aunt and uncle wouldn't hear him sneak out into the kitchen, he got up. Padding softly into the room, he made a beeline for the fridge, hoping that the inside light couldn't be seen from the upstairs landing.

When he opened the fridge, the light didn't turn on. Thankful, Harry groped around inside until his hand came across some old leftovers that had been there for a while. Dudley hadn't eaten it, Uncle Vernon wouldn't notice it missing (he didn't usually come into the kitchen except for meals) and Aunt Petunia would probably be both thankful it was gone and secretly hoping he'd catch some awful disease from it and die.

Harry softly slid a chair out from under the kitchen table and sat on it, his feet swinging a little off the ground as he opened the container as quietly as he could and began to eat. A little while later, when the container was completely spotless, Harry silently cleaned up after himself, drank hastily from the tap (he still had quite a bad headache) and then retreated to his cupboard.

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It was a few weeks after the wig incident that saw Uncle Vernon receiving another letter from the school, though the contents of this letter was much different. This letter was going to change Harry's life, in more ways than one.

It happened that during one lunchbreak when Harry was being chased once again by Dudley and his gang one of the gym teachers had spotted them. Not only was Dudley in trouble, but the gym teacher had been very interested in having Harry join one of the school's football teams. Harry was ecstatic and Dudley was being punished for the first time in his life. The only obstacle came from Uncle Vernon, who was torn between continuing his life-long mission of making Harry as miserable as possible and getting him out of the house for most of the day. The latter won out, and soon Aunt Petunia took him for a quick shopping trip to the local discount clothing store in order to buy some sportswear. Harry was elated – not only because he'd never been on a shopping trip just for himself before, but also because this was quite possibly the first time in his life where he was not only wearing something that _hadn't_ been worn by Dudley before him, but also fit him perfectly. Soon, Harry attended his first ever training session, feeling very happy and dapper in his new clothing.

At the end of the first training session, Harry's head was swimming. Most of the boys weren't particularly keen on having Harry on the team due to the fear of retribution from Dudley, but after an hour's training, the coach seemed to be especially happy with him. Unfriendly but not unfair, the coach liked him because he was particularly small for his age, and quite agile, making it very hard for the other boys to catch up with him. He was also quite good with the ball, which surprised everyone including himself. Harry left the football field feeling on top of the world.

As he trudged back to Privet Drive on his own, he reflected on the only bad aspect of the night. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his glasses, which had been snapped in the middle at some point. Of course, it didn't stop him from getting home on his own – his eyesight wasn't terrible, it just wasn't wonderful either – it was rather like watching the world through a light fog, or maybe even the haze that accompanies intense heat. And Harry couldn't make himself care all that much about his glasses, because they _were_ a little small for his face from where he'd grown, and this way it would force Aunt Petunia to at least consider buying him a new pair.

As he thought this, he ran his fingers lightly over his broken glasses, letting himself imagine a brand new pair that would actually fit his face. He might even ask for a different shape this time, although Aunt Petunia only ever bought the round glasses because they were the cheapest. He might even get to try on this new pair – the pair he held in his hands sometimes pinched the bridge of his nose irritatingly, and Harry hadn't known how to adjust them, and even thinking about asking his relatives made him snort.

There was an odd tingling warmth in his fingers as he continued to daydream about a pair of fictional glasses, and Harry glanced down. He nearly dropped his glasses.

He no longer held two sections of a pair of broken glasses. He wasn't even sure if he was holding his own glasses. He instead held one perfectly healthy pair of glasses, gleaming as if they were brand new and hadn't seen lots of abuse at the hands of Dudley. They weren't round, either – they were slightly rectangular, but still looked enough like his old pair that no one would have noticed. For a moment Harry looked around wildly, wondering if he'd accidentally picked up the wrong pair of glasses. But … they had been _broken_. They had been so broken that they weren't even connected anymore. He'd held them in his own hands, had run his thumbs over the jagged edges of the broken bridge. He'd even kept them in separate pockets! And yet, here he was, holding a gleaming pair of new glasses. With shaking hands, he lifted them to his face.

They fit. Perfectly. They were the right size, and they didn't pinch his nose. Harry could hardly believe his luck. They were even the right prescription.

Taking them off again, he gazed down at them, his face split in a grin. He ran all the way back to Privet Drive, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. He almost forgot to take off his muddy football boots before entering the house, and was too excited to eat much of his dinner. His mind was racing with thoughts – impossible thoughts that only continued to race around his head faster until he finally collapsed inside his cupboard. Thoughts about all the accidents that had ever occurred around him – the blue wig – the one time he'd ended up on top of the school kitchens – that night all his hair had grown back. Harry was almost shaking, he was so excited. The more he thought about it, the more excited he got. One part of him whispered, what if … ? while another part said, but it's _impossible_! He tried to tell himself sternly that magic simply wasn't real, that he had just turned seven and was getting too old for this nonsense. But the other part drowned him out. Harry couldn't see how it made sense any other way. How did a pair of broken glasses mend themselves and change shape if it wasn't through magic? How did a sweater just keep shrinking and shrinking until it was too small to fit over Harry's hand, let alone his head, if it wasn't through magic?

As Harry thought through it more and more, he convinced himself that there wasn't any other way. Scrambling up from his bed, he grabbed one of the baby toys from the shelf, and set it down gingerly on the ground. He was trembling with anticipation.

He settled himself in front of the toy, not quite sure what to do but convinced that he could do it. He reached out a trembling finger, touched the toy, and tried to imagine it moving.

Nothing.

Frowning, he pressed his fingers to the toy again, and closed his eyes, imagining it flying across the room. Opening them again, he saw that the toy was wobbling, but wasn't really sure if it was because he was making it wobble or if it was because of the tremors in his fingers.

For the next half hour he sat in the same cramped position, trying to make the toy move. He touched it; he imagined it; he pointed his finger at it. Nothing seemed to be working, and it was here that Harry began to feel the first pangs of doubt niggling at him. The more it didn't move, the more doubt Harry felt, until he finally fell back, feeling sad and drained and empty and even more lonely than usual. The familiar pricking behind his eyes was back, and Harry fought to keep his tears at bay. For a short time he'd thought … he'd _hoped_ that this was all real … that he really was magical … that maybe, somewhere out there were people just like him, able to make accidents happen … that he wasn't as desperately alone as he felt … A tear trickled down his cheek …

And with a sound like a firecracker going off, the toy launched itself across the room, hitting the ceiling and shattering off into different directions. Harry's head jerked up and his eyes searched wildly for the noise. He found it in the broken pieces of the toy, scattered across the room, each one smouldering faintly. The smell of burnt wood filled Harry's little cupboard, and Harry found himself crying again, not in sadness but in pure unadulterated relief.

If there were others like him, maybe one day they'd realise that he was here, and they'd come to get him. Harry feel asleep with another headache and wet cheeks, and dreamt of endless possibilities, happier than he had been in a long while.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_OMG! I know! Like, one line of dialogue in that entire chapter! I'm so sorry about that – I kept on trying but it just didn't fit._

_This is really a filler chapter just to get things rolling. I was going to have another bit where Dumbledore was leaving Harry with the Dursleys, but figured that JKR has already written that one, and that it's probably better for us to see Harry growing up. This chapter is really about setting up Harry, because he's just so cute and small and cuddly and probably all knees and elbows but whatever._

_Wave goodbye, peeps, 'cuz he's not going to stay that age._

_Oh yeah, and Harry has to play a sport because he doesn't have Quidditch and he needs __something__, right? Football codes for soccer, btw. And besides, I love football and really, it was either football or cricket. Oh, the options._

_Thank you for reading! Please review!_

_x Sweartoad_


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